


Bend the Knee

by expected_aberrance



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Canon Compliant, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, F/M, Guilt, Hurt, Love/Hate, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Terrible Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, dom-ish!Sansa, in an admittedly fucked up way, my attempt at making sense of this season, sub!Petyr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expected_aberrance/pseuds/expected_aberrance
Summary: Her door is unlocked; he knows he is welcome. He eases it open on oiled hinges, slipping inside silently. Gone too is her lumbering protector, likely dismissed hours ago. The giant of a woman may suspect something untoward--she levels that sour look at him often enough--but she’s too doggedly loyal to disobey her lady’s command. The room is dim, lit by torchlight and the fire in the hearth, and his love is absent at present. He drops to his knees in the space’s center without being ordered, his head bowed; disobedience won't serve him well, at least at this stage in the game. Then he waits, impatience buried beneath the calming notion that he is at least guaranteed totouchher tonight, if nothing else. The cold stone is murder on his joints, but he’s already half-hard and he hasn’t even looked at her yet.





	Bend the Knee

**Author's Note:**

> I know I owe updates on Company of Wolves and Prescription for Pain, but my muse handed me this effed up little oneshot instead. I know I can't be the only one frustrated with how this season has played out so far, and this was my response, evidently. I'm not sure that says good things about my state of mind. Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> _I can feel your love teaching me how_  
>  _Your love is teaching me how_  
>  _How to kneel_  
>  _Kneel_
> 
>  
> 
>  _All of this, all of this can be yours_  
>  _All of this, all of this can be yours_  
>  _All of this, all of this can be yours_  
>  _Just give me what I want and no one gets hurt_  
>  \--U2, _Vertigo_
> 
>  

Her door is unlocked; thus he knows he is welcome. He eases it open on oiled hinges, slipping inside silently. Gone too is her lumbering protector, likely dismissed hours ago. The giant of a woman may suspect something untoward--she levels that sour look at him often enough--but she’s too doggedly loyal to disobey her lady’s command. The room is dim, lit by torchlight and the fire in the hearth, and his love is absent at present. He drops to his knees in the space’s center without being ordered, his head bowed; disobedience won't serve him well, at least at this stage in the game. Then he waits, impatience buried beneath the calming notion that he is at least guaranteed to _touch_ her tonight, if nothing else. The cold stone is murder on his joints, but he’s already half-hard and he hasn’t even looked at her yet. It’s been a few hours of unease, forcing himself to focus on the many plots he has in play--some working at cross-purposes, as always--sending out a flurry of ravens to every corner of the kingdom and further afield as well. The madness of dragons, giants, the walking dead--fate has upended the chess board he has carefully curated for decades and replaced it with a fairy tale book, but he perseveres. He’d attended her after supper as well in what had been her father’s solar and was now the domain of the reluctant King of the North. She commands the space and the liege lords scuffling in and out with ease, juggling a host of needs and demands with far defter hand than said crowned bastard. Their encounters have become much more frequent in the absence of her erstwhile brother as well, one of the many reasons he has to be grateful for the fool’s decision to journey south against all sound advice.

A whisper of cloth announces Sansa’s arrival, and his heart beats faster as she steps into his constricted view. She is barefoot, the queen of winter untouched by the chill she commands. When she grabs his cheek to drag his gaze to meet hers, it isn't gentle, not anymore. Such a kindly, delicate girl she’d been, even after Joffrey had done his best to ruin her. When he’d stolen her away to her mad aunt’s roost, she’d still held onto her brightness and purity. After he initiated her into the twisted games he plays, she’d learned, grown wiser, but kept a fundamental goodness about her untainted by the muck and mire he’d made her trek through. It was only his greatest folly that finally broke her; in his arrogance and greed he’d handed her over to a monster of a boy who had stolen her innocence and dashed it to pieces. He is unused to regret, especially on behalf of another, but this he feels daily as a cold pit in his gut.

Now his mistress is cold and cruel, just as he fashioned her. He surrenders to her this control in exchange for that which he'd stolen and can never give back. Her nails dig into his cheek; the marks will mostly be hidden by his beard, but he may have to take ice to it later--a tiresome inconvenience in the unrelenting cold, but one he will undertake gladly for the opportunity to feel her touch. Her eyes are the rush of the roaring Trident, untamable and fierce as she stares down at him. He knows his own betray the host of tumultuous feeling he holds for her--likely a combination of addiction, obsession, and devotion, though he’s not sure he can really differentiate between them anymore, or if it even matters. He knows the shape of her body, imagines it through the formless night dress she wears. The first time he was blessed to see it he was stricken dumb and breathless, and the feeling hasn’t abated since. The marks she bears do nothing to spoil her beauty, to him at least, though he knows she despises the reminders of her vile ex-husband. Still, he feels unaccustomed guilt for being responsible for them, for her to be a victim of his own ignorance and arrogance.

She doesn't look at him often in daylight, not really, or even in the early hours of the evening when the castle is readying itself for night. He can perhaps catch her eye for a moment, draw her in as he used to before she breaks it, separating herself from him once more, a distance he hates. It's only here, with the darkest of hours shrouding their activities, that--though she dictates his every move--he has her undivided attention, a thing he craves as much as he does her body.

She stretches a foot toward him, and he doesn’t need verbal direction to drop low to the ground to press his lips to it. He will worship every square inch of precious skin allotted to him, lips and tongue exploring the subtle traits of each surface, savoring the salt and sweet and spice of her flesh. He places a hand just above her ankle where the hem of the shift falls experimentally. When the reprimand doesn’t come he starts to slide it up her leg, revealing more skin to lave, his mouth following the trail blazed by his hand over the smooth, soft surface. He reaches the arch of her hip and stops, having unveiled the dark red curls adorning her sex. He takes the risk of letting her hear his appreciation of the sight in a soft groan, reveling in the wetness that he’s already created there. He waits until she tugs him closer with the hand curled into his scalp and he shuffles forward eagerly. Her thighs part and hips tilt to meet him. He closes his eyes at the shock of her flavor on his tongue, as overwhelmed as he always seems to be by it no matter how many times he has tasted her. Either she doesn't know how much he enjoys this--which is unlikely--or doesn't care, or perhaps rationalizes it as debasing for him, humiliating to be on his knees for her. He is willing to do many things for his love that he would otherwise abhor, breaking so many of the rules that have kept him alive, helped him claw his way out of the depths of his station, cut down giants and topple ancient houses from the shadows.

He can feel her impatience in the tensing of the muscle under his hands, and readily obliges, lapping up the sweet musk of her arousal, alternating between flattened and pointed tongue, varying his speed and rhythm to stoke the heat between her legs higher and higher, sucking at her needy sex. He earns a gratifying hitch of her breath with his ministrations, but not the moan he desires, and redoubles his efforts, giving each and every crevice and fold due attention, the greatest part focused on the pearl of her clit.

Before Ramsey, when it had been just the two of them, he’d taken this for granted; the kisses, touches, and exchanges that pushed past the boundaries of propriety in the long hours of close quarters they’d shared. He’d encouraged her exploration, quite willing to serve as a trial subject for her to determine her desires and wants, test her power over the weak flesh of man. Such a giving girl she’d been then. Now her kiss bites, drawing blood, and she only takes, all he has; his men, his resources, his heart, his trust, his tongue--both dispensing advice and as purposed now, lapping at her clit--even his cock, when she’s feeling charitable, and he is so very willing to give it. It's a testament to her strength that she even wants this at all, though he's ensured she feels nothing but pleasure with him even if it goes unreturned.

He draws the pads of his digits toward her entrance, gently encircling it, only venturing deeper when the hand in his hair tightens. He slips a finger into the heat of her gorgeous cunny, and she yanks him closer; soon enough she is grinding against him in abandon, lost in the pleasure he gives her. He adds another finger to test the depths of her, finding the roughened patch of flesh at the fore so often neglected by careless men but is the whoremonger’s purview. Her slick passage begins to tighten around his thrusting fingers, and her legs began to shake; he eagerly collects the the soft cries and gasps falling from her lips as her pleasure crests and breaks. She almost collapses over him but he holds her up with the hand on her hip and her legs braced against him.

His face is wet and his hair mussed, a state he would otherwise detest but revels in because he is soaked in her. He’s now painfully hard, straining his breeches, but he doesn’t dare address his own need, not yet. He waits, wanting to move, to grip himself to relieve the ache, but he knows the reward will be so much sweeter if he’s patient. Sometimes he is dismissed after he makes her come, not permitted to finish himself off. Those nights he tries to make it to the safety of his quarters before succumbing to his need, but he doesn’t always succeed--he’s lost track of the number of times he’s stumbled into an alcove, almost falling against the wall in his desperation to free his aching cock, quickly spilling into his own hand, muffling the groans that always seem to form into her name. He will always want more of her, perhaps more than she will ever be willing to give. It was at Mole’s Town he decides, when he truly became willing to do _anything_ for her, including protect her from himself. He hardly deserves it--any of it--but that doesn’t stop him wanting so terribly.

She lets him go, stepping back, and he wants to close the space between them once more, but stays where he is, still kneeling. After a moment, when she’s controlled her breathing, she speaks. “Take your clothes off and get on the bed,” she commands, her tone uncompromising iron.

He obeys, ignoring the cracking of his knees as he rises and the bite of the cold on his skin as he removes the layers still clothing him, her words blossoming heat in his chest to match the heavy throb in his groin. He lays atop the furs near the headboard should she choose to restrain him. In the beginning, she’d done nothing but, and the deprivation--not being able to touch the fair skin calling to him--had been maddening. He understood her desire to control every aspect of their lovemaking, however, her need to feel _safe_ with him. Now, she binds his hands when the urge takes her rather than out of fear, a very welcome change.

He shivers bare on the bed under her appraisal but knows better than to try to cover himself or attend to the erection now lying flat against his belly, bobbing with each breath. He is as comfortable under her stare as he’s ever been naked and defenceless--for he knows she _wants_ him. He knows also what he is not; he’s always been slight, unblessed with the rippling muscle or towering height of his peers, and the scar bisecting his chest is hardly beautiful, but through disciplined living he has avoided the paunch beginning to creep up on so many men of his age, and what lies between his legs is certainly more than adequate. Furthermore, he knows how to _use_ it, an oft-overlooked detail he’s observed many-a-time in his brothels. He waits in silence, and that is almost as difficult to maintain as ignoring the leaking head of his neglected cock, precum beginning to smear over his abdomen.

Finally, she approaches, stripping off the slip and dropping it carelessly to the side of the bed as she ascends in graceful movements to straddle his thighs. He clenches his hands, trying not to reach for her prematurely, nails digging into his palms. Dispassionately, she surveys him from above, then trails a finger down the underside of his cock. He twitches under her touch, straining in near-desperation, but she withdraws her hand from him. A whine escapes his throat in response, but he watches, entranced, as she strokes herself instead, playing with the slickness between her thighs languidly. His fingers clench and unclench at his sides to restrain himself. Thankfully, her hand soon returns to grip him firmly, a mixture of his saliva and her cum coating her palm, pumping up and down slowly. He can’t hold back any longer, bucking up into her hand with a grunt. His eyes flash up to hers, almost fearful at the trespass, but she only smirks in satisfaction. She releases him again, but before he can protest, she pulls herself forward, gripping his hips for leverage, replacing her hand with the wet heat of her folds, sliding over him deliciously.

He wants very badly to taste her breasts, make the furled tips of them shine like he has the red curls at the crux of her legs. She leans forward then, and for a moment he thinks perhaps she might let him do just that, but instead she reaches for something on the table beside the bed. It is a knife, glinting in the firelight as she draws it in front of him, the blade curved and deadly.

So this was to be her choice tonight. He’d meant what he said at Mole’s Town; if she thought he needed to die he wouldn’t resist--he never did. The expression on her face as she stares down at him is conflicted, fury mixed with desire. He might fool himself by thinking the latter has come to dominate the former with the passage of time. She rests the hand holding the knife on his chest, bringing the edge--sharper than the steel he shaves with--to lie against his throat. He hardly dares to swallow under it, but it does nothing to dampen his desire for her, indeed quite the opposite.

When Snow had accosted him in the crypts and made his facile, puerile attempt to intimidate him, scare him away--as if he had any right to dictate who Sansa permitted to touch her--the flesh under his collar was already tender, bruised, _claimed_ by another. He didn’t need the fool’s permission or his thanks, but the refusal further displayed just how unworthy he is for the position he holds. Snow possesses all the honor and wit of Ned Stark, to his detriment, stumbling his way to victory and power he has no right to. Petyr has tried time and again to convince Sansa of this; that she is much more deserving of her father’s seat than some jumped-up bastard, a mere boy who refused to listen to her and continues to do so even after being proven wrong in the most calamitous of ways. He has been unsuccessful thus far, but each further misstep and slight the unqualified King makes drives her further toward Petyr.

Snow had been unnerved when Petyr had ceased to struggle, he could tell. And if he hadn't been take by surprise, he could've regained control earlier, letting the familiar sense of peace wash over him as the instinct to fight was subsumed under acceptance. Perhaps it was for the best; Snow would find his usual reaction to Sansa’s hands around his throat much more disturbing.

She resumes her teasing motions, and it is difficult to stay still even under the deathly sharp deterrent. She uses a variety of implements on him, each with its own advantages and disadvantages. He prefers the warmth of her hands, but the belt provides a consistency of pressure that is difficult to match. Knives and daggers give him more room to breath, of course, but add an extra element of danger should she lose control. The common denominator is what really matters in this; she could hold a crossbow to his head and it wouldn't make any practical difference as long as _her_ hand wielded it. Every scar adorning her is his fault, so why shouldn't she have free reign to return the favor?

He’s read of creatures where the male is devoured by the female during mating, and he understands completely; if the knife slips even a fraction of an inch, he’ll die, but he can't bring himself to care when she lets him come inside her. He wonders idly if she did slit his throat, would she regret it? Would any mourn? The Lords Declarant would likely take the army back to the Vale to wait out the coming winter. Perhaps that, rather than any residual affection she may have for him is what stays her hand. Sometimes she lets him talk, whisper filthy praises and profane orisons, but not always. She is wary of his words, as perhaps she should be; they’ve always been his most potent weapon. The blade lifts off his neck a hair, and he uses the opportunity to inhale deeply.

“You are a goddess, my love,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse even to his own ears. He feels her shudder in response, despite her efforts to inure herself against him, and holds in a smirk, not wanting to jeopardise his opportunity to say more.

She grasps him firmly and lowers herself down onto him, focusing on where they join. He wants to raise his head to better see, captivated by the sight of his cock entering her, but the cutting edge forestalls him. She stills when he is fully seated inside her, breath deep but calm. By contrast he is desperate, every fiber of his being screaming at him to _move,_ but he knows better. Again, his patience is rewarded when she starts to rock back and forth, using him for her pleasure. She fits perfectly around him, as if neither of them were made for anything else. Carefully, he begins to thrust up into her to match her motions, finding the angle and rhythm she likes best.

She looks back up at him, and he opens his hands at his sides in silent question, then slides his them around her thighs when the blade doesn’t descend. At her mute acquiescence, he ventures higher sweeping upward, faded scars barely detectable under his the pads of his fingers to take her breasts into his hands, thumbs encircling her areolae, her gaze dark and heavy as she observes him touching her. The knife falls away, forgotten for the time being as she pursues her peak a second time, her gasps and moans the sweetest sounds he has ever heard. He snaps his hips up to meet her accelerating pace, dropping a hand back down to where they are connected to find her sensitive clit, fingers and words urging her higher and onward.

When she comes tight and hot around him again, she doesn't say it, not his name; it's all he wants to hear in that moment, but it seems his penance will be to never receive it. At an unintentional twitch of her hand he feels an icy burn at the side of his neck, but he follows her over the edge regardless--he’s been ready to come since she let him inside her--filling her with all he has, which is considerable; he doesn’t touch himself on nights when he is barred from her chambers, though it taxes his control most painfully. It feels like his entire being is alight with her, pleasure robbing him of all sense and meaning except _Sansa, only Sansa--_

When his vision clears, his thudding heart slowed to a more reasonable pace, he looks up at the hooded eyes staring down at him. Her expression seems caught between triumphant and lost; he knows the feeling all too well. Her brow furrows suddenly as she notices the wound she has inflicted. She takes the blade away, tossing it back onto the table with a clatter, and presses her hand to the cut to staunch the bleeding, an unexpected tenderness and concern she does not often grant him now. It is almost more precious than the release he has been allowed, and he stays utterly still, basking in the attention, determined to enjoy it while it lasts. He is right to savor it; soon enough she recovers, coming back to herself, regaining the cold, callous air she insists on employing with him. She turns away, but not before handing him a bit of cloth to wipe his neck and keep there until the bleeding stops, a touch of caring she can’t seem to help.

Some nights she lets him stay--often an hour, perhaps less--but if he's exceptionally lucky, he’ll get to hold her until dawn threatens to break over the keep. Evidently tonight is such a night, as she lets him follow her underneath the heavy furs. She curls away from him but does not resist his efforts to wrap himself around her, pressing her close to cover every bit of her he can. Even if she permits it solely for the body heat she can get from him in the castle growing colder by the day, he’ll take it. Someday soon, the seed he's sewn inside her womb will catch, the sedition he's worked so hard to plant will overgrow the lingering loyalty clouding her mind, her heart will warm to his, and he’ll have all of her. Or the dead will come, in which case it'll all have been for naught, but at least he’ll have had this.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't use present tense often, but it seemed to work for this piece, so I hope it isn't too off-putting. Thanks as always for reading!


End file.
